


Down Came the Rain and Washed the Spider Out

by hibernate



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:02:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibernate/pseuds/hibernate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which H.G. spends season 4 having tea with Mrs. Frederic and not thinking about the Warehouse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down Came the Rain and Washed the Spider Out

1\. 

The sign above the door says 'Ted's Restaurant'.

"I expected to be brought once more to your mysterious Regent facilities," Helena says, after Mr. Kosan orders something called 'banana cream pie' and coffee for them both. "Am I to consider this a last meal?"

It's an attempt at humor, but Mr. Kosan seems to lack a sense for it. He is silent for long enough that Helena starts to wonder if he is ignoring her. Their pie arrives, and Helena takes a careful bite, watching as Mr. Kosan does the same.

"Someone dear to me used to own this restaurant," he says at last, and it is the first time she's seen even a flicker of emotion on his face. "Her pies were... better."

In truth, the food on her plate is quite far from what Helena would consider a pie, but, then, she has learned since stepping out of the Bronzer that such is often the case - be it the fault of the current century, or the country she has found herself in. America is a strange place, indeed.

"The punishment you received after the incident at Yellowstone was not meant to be cruel, nor was it meant to be permanent," Mr Kosan says, once more neutral and difficult to read. "But you do present an unusual predicament. What does one do with someone in possession of such a brilliant and dangerous mind?"

It is Helena's turn to be silent, momentarily stunned speechless by change in subject. "Do you plan to bronze me again?" she asks, when her wits return.

Mr. Kosan tilts his head. "It's been discussed. Not recently." 

In truth, Helena is not certain if that is a relief or not. "Am I to be returned to my previous holographic state, then?"

"The Janus Coin was useful, but circumstances have changed, Ms. Wells."

"What does that mean?"

Turning back to his pie, Mr. Kosan takes his time, relishing each bite, and Helena grows restless watching him eat. "You are to be released into the care of a guardian," he says, finally.

"Artie?"

"No." For the first time since he came to collect her, there's a hint of a smirk on Mr. Kosan's lips. "Much better than that."

 

*

 

There's a black car waiting by the pavement, and its door swings open as Helena follows Mr. Kosan out of the restaurant. Looking through the opened door into the backseat, Helena finds herself faced with the unrelenting stare of Mrs. Frederic.

It is raining, heavy drops falling onto Helena's face.

"You may not have anything to do today, Ms. Wells," Mrs. Frederic says, "but some of us do. Please try not to drip on the seat."

 

2.

She is not one to be bothered by prolonged silence, but after half an hour in the moving car, Helena is starting to wonder. "It stopped raining," she remarks, hoping to spark some kind of response from the woman beside her.

"It seems your powers of observation are as sharp as I've been told."

After that, Helena stays silent.

The drive is long, and despite the uncertainty of what is to become of her, Helena finds herself drifting off to sleep. Of course Emily had slept, but the last time Helena remembers falling asleep as herself was in Egypt; a fitful rest full of disjointed, troubled dreams.

She cannot move. In the dream, she is trapped, sinking into quicksand - Myka kisses her brow, and Woolly takes off his hat. "Ms. Wells - H.G. - shall I prepare the coffin?"

"She doesn't need a coffin," Claudia says, picking up a spanner from her pocket. "I could use the spare parts."

Helena looks down on her chest, finding it translucent, allowing her to see the mechanical pump beneath her breast, where her heart should be.

"Do you mind if I smoke, my dear?" Chaturanga asks, lighting his pipe. "I should think not; I see you are doing some smoking there on your own." 

The pump in her chest hitches and clicks, and when she exhales, smoke exits her nose with a whistling sound. It mingles with the smoke from Chaturanga's pipe, making Myka take a step back, coughing. 

Then there is the face of her brother, through the smoke, lop-sided smirk and all. "Really, Helena? Do you not find all this rather too extravagant? Must everything in your life be so fraught with histrionics?"

And then she is alone, as the sand around her slowly turns to bronze. 

She wakes, sucking in air, as the car stops. Mrs. Frederic is still looking out the window, though by now it has grown dark outside, street lights and bright windows making the shadows deeper. 

Even in the darkness, the surroundings are quite familiar, at least to someone whose memories Helena carries. "Mr. Kosan assured me he had no intention of using the Janus Coin again," she says, sitting up straight.

"The coin is back in the Warehouse."

She cannot keep the edge from her voice. "Then why would you bring me here?"

"Ms. Wells, do you not think I have better things to do than finding you a suitable place to stay in a matter of a few hours? This apartment will suit as well as any."

Jaw clenched, she meets Mrs. Frederic's stare. "Will I be required to teach English to high school students as well?"

Mrs. Frederic looks back at her, utterly calm and untouchable. "That won't be necessary."

 

*

 

There's a letter attached to the door.

' _Ms. Lake_ ,' it starts, and on the bottom of the page, there's a signature belonging to the building's landlord. ' _Your door was unlocked. According to the lease you signed this means you'll have to cover the cost for the broken window yourself. Please make sure it's fixed within the week. Broken glass is an unpleasant nuisance for everyone._ '

The door is still unlocked, thankfully - Emily kept a spare key at the school, but Helena does not exactly wish to return there any time soon. Walking inside, she crumples the letter into a ball in her fist, leaning back against the door.

It does not look much like Emily's neat apartment any longer - the window to the balcony is smashed, glass everywhere. The coffee table is not so much a table now, sitting flat on the floor, legs no longer attached to it. In fact, the living room looks much like the hapless victim of a particularly rowdy earthquake.

Nevertheless, it is an eerie feeling to be back. The last time she was here, she was someone else. One thing is very clear now that she is standing in the remains of Emily's life: no matter what Mrs. Frederic says, she is not staying here. In the bedroom, her shaking hands find a travel bag, and though she'd rather not wear the clothes Emily Lake had owned, it's better than nothing. 

Bag packed with the bare essentials, Helena sinks down on the bed, wrapping the duvet around her shoulders. Lying down on her side, knees pulled to her chest, she falls into a dreamless sleep.

 

3.

Helena wakes to the sound of clinking porcelain and the hiss of a kettle. For a moment, time is forgotten and she is back in her bed in England, slow to rise after a night of chasing Artifacts. Sometimes the maid would rouse her with a cup of tea, and it had always made the morning seem less harsh. 

But she is not in England now. When Pete and Myka came to find her, Emily had taken a knife to protect herself, but Helena needs no weapons. Prepared for anything, she rises, moving silently through the apartment. 

She is halfway through the living room when a voice from the kitchen stops her. "There is no need for that, Ms. Wells."

Helena is quite irked that she has been heard, but, then, perhaps it is difficult to hide anything from Mrs. Frederic. Walking the last few steps to the kitchen, Helena finds the woman standing in the middle of the room, holding two steaming cups.

"I fed your cat," Mrs. Frederic says, nodding towards a corner of the floor, where a gray cat is eating rather enthusiastically from a bowl.

She had not thought of the cat the night before, but after the commotion that left part of the apartment in ruin, it must have been hiding. "The cat is not mine," she says sharply.

"You seem to share a residence," Mrs. Frederic replies, quirking an eyebrow. "Let's not quibble over who owns whom. Tea?"

 

*

 

Mrs. Frederic steps over the glass shards on the floor without a word and sits down on the sofa, teacup in hand.

Helena remains standing on the other side of the room, silently stirring her tea. From the broken window, a breeze blows into the room. Another few shards of glass drop from the window, loosened by the wind. Mrs. Frederic raises an eyebrow. "I love what you've done with the place."

Raising her chin, Helena replies, "I hear fresh air is good for one's health."

"Then I suspect you'll live a very long life."

"Have I not already?"

The look Mrs. Frederic fixes on her is searching, but she says nothing. The cat traipses through the room, neatly avoiding the glass, and jumps up on the couch next to Mrs. Frederic. After a look from her, he lies flat down, purring loudly. As far as Helena remembers, the cat had not been very fond of strangers, but apparently these things change once bribery in the shape of food has entered into the equation.

"What do you plan to do with me?" Helena asks, when she cannot stand the silence any longer.

"There's no need to be dramatic," Mrs. Frederic says. "You're free to do whatever you wish."

"I can return to the Warehouse?"

"Is that what you want?"

That gives Helena pause. "It's the only thing I have left," she tells her, and it is a bittersweet conclusion to make. After Christina, she has loved nothing more than the Warehouse, but it's not the most affectionate of lovers. 

"Indeed," Mrs. Frederic says, and Helena feels uncomfortable under her gaze, as if all her secrets are there to be seen. "I would suggest you spend some time here, first. Perhaps settle Emily Lake's affairs. You still remember everything about your time here, do you not?"

"Emily Lake is gone. Her 'affairs' can remain unsettled."

Mrs. Frederic's voice softens marginally. "They are your friends, I understand. But they know that you are safe, and I would consider it a personal favor if, for now, you refrained from contacting them."

"Why?"

"I suggest you think of this as a vacation," Mrs. Frederic replies, though it hardly answers the question. "Consider yourself lucky; it's not something afforded to many Warehouse Agents."

"For now," Helena hedges.

"Good. It's settled then." From seemingly out of nowhere, Mrs. Frederic produces a note, putting it down next to the cat on the couch. "My phone number. Only a select number of people know of it. I trust you will not use it lightly, nor let it fall into the wrong hands." Her lips twitch; half a grimace. "Agent Lattimer once gained access to it, through a combination of deceit and bribery. The ensuing text messages were... tiresome." 

Helena cannot keep the smile from her face, imagining the scenario far too easily. "I'll handle it with care."

"By the way. I gave the number of Emily Lake's cellular phone to Agent Nielsen. You should keep it close. Perhaps he'll call."

"To exchange pleasantries? I very much doubt that."

There is an odd sort of look passing over Mrs. Frederic's face. "Did you know he spoke on your behalf?" she asks, eyes locked on Helena. "Most vehemently, in fact. It would seem he's had a change of heart regarding you."

"Why would he do that?"

"I believe his exact words were, that under an 'extreme circumstance', he believed you to be capable of behaving 'quite heroically'. Curious, is it not?"

Mrs. Frederic gets to her feet, handing Helena her empty cup when she passes her. On the couch, the cat glares at Helena, as if it is her fault that his new favorite person is leaving.

"I'll be in touch," Mrs. Frederic says. "Please try not to cause any more apocalypses until then."

 

*

 

The next day, a new coffee table is delivered.

It comes with a note; two words in elegant handwriting: ' _Tea, Thursday_ '.

 

4.

 

Helena parks Emily's car at some distance from Leena's Bed & Breakfast. 

Her steps become slower as she nears the house, the one she never quite could think of as _home_. Through the window into the kitchen, she can see Claudia and Pete laughing together, and Myka, giving them both a fond, if somewhat exasperated, smile. 

It is not Mrs. Frederic's business who she contacts. If she is indeed free to do what she chooses, it ought to be her right to see whoever she wants. 

Determination gathered, her feet still do not move. 

Stubborn pride fizzles like dying embers, and she finds herself taking a step back instead, deeper into the shadows. It's true, what she told Mrs. Frederic; the Warehouse, and these people, they are all she has left in this future she's found herself living. But history does not paint her character in particularly flattering colors.

When her telephone rings, she almost jumps. Before she manages to fish it up from the pocket of Emily's jacket, she is sure it must be Mrs. Frederic, who somehow knows where she is and what she is thinking. But the number on the display is unfamiliar. 

He does not introduce himself, but there's no mistaking the voice. "Artie," she says, a sense of calm enveloping her. 

Myka is alone in the kitchen now, face having turned serious, clearly focused on the task at hand, whatever it may be. Studying her face one last time through the window, Helena smiles, warmth growing in her chest. This is the easy part.

Apparently, she has a mission.

 

*

 

The cat has taken to hissing at the sight of her. Dutifully keeping it fed and its litter box clean, Helena is realizing she quite despises cats. At least canines can keep guard and make themselves useful. Cats seem to do little more than sleep.

"Well, I don't like you either," she tells the cat when he hisses as she sits down on the couch next to him. "But your previous owner seems to be gone for good, so I suppose we're stuck with each other."

The cat should be grateful; she had the window repaired and all broken glass cleaned away, sparing his little feet from shards. But the creature simply stares at her, resentful and calculating like only a cat can be.

"If nothing else," Helena mutters," I can have you for dinner, should starvation strike."

 

*

 

The dagger turns out to be difficult to find.

The world has changed since her day, and though she is a quick learner, she finds herself wishing for the resources of the Warehouse, not least Claudia's expertise. She has tea with Mrs. Frederic on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and if she knows what Helena is doing, she keeps it to herself. Helena says nothing. It is a harmless favor for Artie, that is all.

Perhaps keeping secrets has become too much second nature to her.

"We're taking a drive today," Mrs. Frederic says one Thursday, and Helena steps eases into the backseat of her car once more. The driver, with his perpetual silence, steers the car down familiar streets, ones she used to drive each morning. It's not a surprise when the car stops outside the school where Emily used to teach.

"Did you bring me here in order to get me to divulge everything I feel about this place?" Helena asks, crossing her arms. "Because there's nothing to feel. This was not my life and it means nothing to me."

"There is a nice walking path behind the school." Mrs. Frederic frowns in obvious distaste. "Ms Wells, not everything is about your _feelings_."

"Oh." 

Helena follows Mrs. Frederic without another word, and the path is nice. 

She has taken to wearing Emily's clothes, though she expects she has the finances to acquire attires more to her liking. But over the weeks, it has stopped feeling like a game of dress-up. As they walk, in silence, Helena cannot help but glance at the school between the trees. It's closed now, of course, students enjoying their summer break, and it seems fitting that the windows are dark and empty.

When she gets back home, the cat is sitting on the coffee table, glaring at her. There is something quite accusatory in its eyes, as if Helena is to blame for everything wrong in its life. In a way she supposes she is. Emily Lake is gone, and Helena rose from her ashes; she is not so selfless that she wishes to return to her holographic banishment, but Emily was... different. 

No matter how much she tries, she doesn't seem to quite manage forgetting. Everything about Emily's life was so entirely pedestrian, so far from everything that Helena is. Perhaps once, she'd had the patience for kindness, but there have always been so many things she's wanted, so many things she's craved. Is that not why Artie contacted her, despite their uneasy history? Because she is accustomed to secrets and deception. 

There is something, vague and undefined, tugging at her mind. 

 

*

 

One thing is left to puzzle out: this claim of Artie's, that seems quite unlike him. 

She will never regret ridding the world of MacPherson, but she rather suspects that Artie will never forgive her for it. This sudden change of heart could not have sprung from nothing. It is simple causality; action and response.

And the worst of it is that she knows, far too well, the cause and effect of this particular dilemma. It is getting all the more difficult to ignore.

"I bought you a plant," Mrs. Frederic says that Thursday, holding out a pot with a small leafy thing to Helena. "Yours seem to all have perished in some sort of unfortunate accident. I trust the same won't happen to this one."

Helena accepts the plant, holding it with some trepidation. Perhaps the Janus Coin had taken something else from Emily, with her memories - some sort of drive to keep moving; that itch that makes her restless. She has never had the time or patience for plant life, and on occasion she has wondered how Emily managed to keep them alive. Since Helena arrived at the apartment, they had died, one by one, until none was left. 

If Myka was here, she would surely invent a rigorous schedule to keep the plant watered, and receiving of the correct amount of sunlight. That thought makes Helena's chest ache rather painfully, and she promises herself, right then, to keep the plant alive until she is in a position to let Myka take over its care.

"Do they ever talk about me?" she asks, holding the pot tighter.

"No."

"Oh."

Mrs. Frederic looks down at the cat, who is sitting politely by her feet, purring loudly at the sight of her. "I believe Agent Lattimer has instated a rule that your name must not be mentioned while Agent Bering is present," she says, taking a step over the cat and walking further into the apartment.

Helena is left in the hallway, still clutching the plant. "Why would he do that?"

"I find," Mrs. Frederic says, over her shoulder, "that Agent Lattimer's ways are frequently mysterious."

 

*

 

That night, Helena dreams about Myka. 

In the dream, they are in the Warehouse. Myka sits down on the time machine, and Helena joins her, seating herself on the opposite chair. Above them, the sky is endless and full of stars. "Where are we going?" Helena asks.

Myka shrugs. "I don't know. It's your time machine."

That, it is. "I can take you back to any time you wish," she says, suddenly eager to demonstrate her invention. Smoothing a hand down the armrest, she cannot help but smirk with pride. "It's quite a genius contraption, if I do say so myself."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, that is so. Tell me what point in time you wish to visit."

"Maybe it shouldn't be so easy to go back," Myka says, and Helena frowns.

"Easy? I'll have you know I spent years perfecting my machine. There was nothing 'easy' about it."

But Myka doesn't seem overly impressed. If anything, she looks sad, and Helena's chest constricts at the sight of it. She cannot think of anything she would not do to bring a smile to her face once more. "I'll take you back to before."

"Before what?"

Leaning back, the chairs spin, around and around, at a dizzying speed. Helena blinks, and when she opens her eyes again, she is in Warehouse 2. Chaturanga walks ahead of her, rushed steps through aisles of ancient Artifacts.

The last time she was here, there was only one Artifact on her mind. Looking down, she sees that the spear is there, in her hand, heavy and brimming with power. The weight of it slows her down, makes her steps short and labored. Chaturanga has to stop and wait.

"We are late," he says when she catches up to him. Reaching into his coat, he takes out a pocket watch, eying it keenly, before pushing it into Helena's hand. "Mind the time, my dear."

Making a sharp turn, Chaturanga steps through a door and vanishes into the dark. "Where are we going?" Helena calls after him, hesitating on the threshold, spear in one hand and watch in the other.

His voice carries back through the door. " _That is entirely up to you, Ms Wells._ "

Helena steps through the door.

Through the window of the horse-drawn carriage, London is nothing but a blur. Beside her, to her left, is Myka, dressed in jeans and leather jacket, curls falling around her face. Between them rests the spear, leaning against the seat. 

"Where are we going?"

"You tell me." Leaning in closer, Myka whispers, "I think you're supposed to be driving."

Putting a hand on Helena's cheek, Myka smiles as her thumb grazes the corner of Helena's mouth. Leaning forward, Myka's lips brush against her cheek. Myka is warm and so beautifully solid, but the spear chafes against Helena's shoulder.

On the seat opposite them, the cat jumps up, tail whipping back and forth.

"I think I'm supposed to mind the time," Helena murmurs, breathing in when Myka breaths out.

But the watch is no longer showing the time, it's counting down; red, digital numbers ticking down to zero. "Well, this is quite a pickle," the cat says, and Helena wakes with a start.

Her heart is pounding, hard and fast against her ribs. The room is dark, and she feels quite desperately alone, all of her body longing in ways it should not.

The cat is sitting on the foot of the bed, observing her. When she reaches out, he stays still, allowing her to run a hand across his back. At least outside of her dreams, the cat does not speak.

Sighing, she quite wishes she could return the knowledge she woke with, as clear and indisputable as the ache in her heart. "Artie, you fool," she mumbles.

Things relating to the Warehouse do seem to have a tendency to become increasingly complicated.

 

*

The phone call is short.

"Ms Wells, I hope for your sake this is important."

"Arthur Nielsen used an Artifact to travel back in time and change the natural course of events."

"...very well, then."

 

*

 

It's five in the morning when Mrs. Frederic arrives, looking perfectly coiffured as always.

"Magellan's Astrolabe," she says, after Helena has told her everything about her suspicions, and the mysterious dagger that she still has not found. "You know of it."

Helena hesitates only briefly; this is not a secret she needs to keep. "By the time I discovered its purpose, it was too late for it to be of use to me. It only allows someone to travel back 24 hours." 

She had detailed what she knew about it in her journals, letting Chaturanga hide Barbosa's Pocket Watch deep in the Warehouse, even though the Brotherhood would not relinquish the Astrolabe itself. When she was bronzed, her journals had become the property of the Warehouse, and anyone there who wished it could access her words. 

Helena has made tea, and Mrs Frederic accepts a cup, reaching into her purse to retrieve a small flask. "I believe this calls for a stronger spice than what you're offering." She shakes her head when Helena holds her cup out. "Not you, you'll be driving very soon."

"What do you want me to do?"

"For whatever reason, Arthur seems to trust you. He asked you to find this dagger, no-one else. Perhaps you can talk to him. After all, you have some experience with these situations."

"What am I, if not your resident expert on time travel?"

Mrs. Frederic's eyes are searching, as she looks at Helena. "I had hoped we'd get more time."

"For what?" Helena asks, and for one, brief moment, it seems as if Mrs. Frederic is going to tell her. But the moment passes, and Mrs Frederic merely raises an eyebrow, nodding towards the half-wilted plant in the window.

"For one thing, you have still not learned to water my plant enough."

 

5.

Mrs. Frederic puts the Astrolabe in Helena's hands and tells her to go, and Helena does not fight it.

Emily's car is hidden behind a hill, a cow merrily grazing next to it. In the apartment in Cheyenne, she packs a bag, while the cat looks on.

There are many things to consider, but Helena finds she would rather not. Artie had said that before he turned back time, she had died to save them, and perhaps she ought to have been able to guess that on her own, based on his sudden and unexpected trust in her. But she doesn't particularly wish to dwell on that day.

Once, long ago, she had feared nothing more than leading an ordinary existence, and perhaps it is a sign that time has caught up with her aged soul, if not her body, that she sometimes finds herself thinking there are worse things in life than boredom. In her inside pocket, safe against her body, rests the Astrolabe, and there is still _something_ , vague and undefined, tugging at her mind.

Bag slung over her shoulder, she picks up the cat, who squirms on her arm. After a moment's consideration, she takes the potted plant Mrs Frederic gave her, too, balancing cat and plant in her arms. Casting one last glance over her shoulder, she closes the door, leaving it unlocked. She won't be coming back.

Outside, she puts the cat down. He crouches down towards the ground immediately, ears pressed back. "Dickens," she says. "I have important business to handle, elsewhere. You're clearly a competent animal, I'm certain you can provide for yourself. Now be on your way. Shoo."

He takes a few careful steps, and then rushes forward to hide in the shrubbery by the side of the house. Helena takes to her car, putting the bag and the plant in the backseat, and dropping her jacket on the passenger seat. 

When she looks, again, the cat is still hiding in the same place.

 

*

Mr. Kosan had brought the cat with him when Emily had first been brought to this apartment. 

"He's a stray," he had said, petting the cat in his lap, "without a home. He has lived a hard life, and now he needs a quiet place to recuperate. I think you may have some things in common."

The cat had stayed, and Emily had named him Dickens. Alone and with no memory of her home, it had been easy for Emily to get attached. She had not understood, then, what Mr. Kosan had meant by his words.

"Fine," she mutters, letting the engine run as she steps out of the car.

When she puts him down on the passenger seat, the cat immediately crawls under her jacket to hide. He's probably going to make things terribly difficult. 

"I'm giving you away to the first person we meet," Helena says, putting the car into a higher gear and driving towards the quickest exit out of Cheyenne. "If I can manage to find someone who wishes to own a flea-ridden beast like yourself." 

Keeping one hand on the wheel of the car, Helena lets her other hand linger on her chest, where her locket rests. "In fact," she says, exhaling. "I suspect it will be quite difficult getting rid of you."

From under her jacket, the cat purrs.


End file.
